


Captured

by TheMarySue



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Humor, Opening Scene, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8618068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarySue/pseuds/TheMarySue
Summary: “I don’t know where we’re going by Sovngarde awaits.”“No, this can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!”At that moment she thought deeply on the dire situation she was in. She had crossed the border into Skyrim and now she was trapped with a bunch of rebels, likely going to be executed. She closed her eyes and took and deep breath and did the only thing that was logical in her mind.She began crying hysterically and screaming, “OH GOD WHY I DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING! I MEAN AT LEAST KILL ME WHEN I DO SOMETHING! OH GOD I’M SO SORRY! I WAS JUST IN THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME! DON’T KILL ME I’M TOO PRETTY TO DIE!”





	

The girl woke up in the rumbling cart. “Oh, my head!” she groaned.  
“Hey you, you’re finally awake!” someone said. She looked up at the Nord in front of her. He was in binds. Upon looking down, she found that she was also in binds.  
“Wh-what? What’s going on?” she asked.  
“You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into the Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there,” the Nord who was so clearly based off of Chris Hemsworth’s Thor said.  
She looked over to the man in rags next to him. He had dark hair and could have been based off of Loki, but probably wasn’t. He didn’t look that much like him.  
“Damn you Stormcloaks…” he said. What, holy fuck, his name is Lokir? Okay, so he’s definitely fucking based off of Loki, what the hell, game? When did they design these characters? I mean, I know the game came out in November of 2011, and _Thor_ came out in May. This can’t be a fucking coincidence. What kind of nerds made this game? I mean, seriously. Come on guys! A little on the nose here. “Skyrim was fine until you came along!” Loki(r) continued, “Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I’d have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!”  
“Is that really something to brag about?” she asked.  
“You there, you and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”  
“Well, fuck me, then. Fuuuuuuck.”  
“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now,” the hot one said.  
“Shut up back there!” the driver snapped.  
“No!” she yelled, pouting. But the driver said nothing else. She shrugged.  
The whiny one looked at the man sitting in front of him, basically Ned Stark with a gag. Now, people have argued with me about this, but come on, bitches. He looks like Sean Bean. I don’t care if you side with the Legion, you can’t tell me this man doesn’t look like Sean Bean. Also that came out in April of 2011, but I so doubt they waited that long to create that character’s appearance. 2011 was a good year. Not like 2016. 2016 sucked balls, you guys.  
“What’s wrong with him, huh?” not-Loki asked.  
“Well, just judging by his overall appearance, I’d say nothing. He’s just gagged.” She said.  
“Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King,” hotty mcyummersome growled at pizzafaced Loki.  
“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion…If they’re capture you…oh gods, where are they taking us?” Baby mcbaberson said, literally shitting himself. She could smell it.  
“I don’t know where we’re going by Sovngarde awaits.”  
“No, this can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!”  
At that moment she thought deeply on the dire situation she was in. She had crossed the border into Skyrim and now she was trapped with a bunch of rebels, likely going to be executed. She closed her eyes and took and deep breath and did the only thing that was logical in her mind.  
She began crying hysterically and screaming, “OH GOD WHY I DIDN’T EVEN DO ANYTHING! I MEAN AT LEAST KILL ME WHEN I DO SOMETHING! OH GOD I’M SO SORRY! I WAS JUST IN THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME! DON’T KILL ME I’M TOO PRETTY TO DIE!”  
Completely ignoring her, Thor asked, “Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?”  
“Why do you care?” he retorted.  
“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”  
“HE PROBABLY DOESN’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT HOME IF HE WAS STEALING A HORSE TO GET AWAY!” She screamed in absolute panic.  
“Rorikstead. I’m…I’m from Rorikstead.”  
“I DIDN’T DO MY HOMEWORK AND HAVEN’T GIVEN MYSELF A BACKSTORY I DON’T KNOW WHAT I SHOULD BE THINKING OF!”  
Another Nord outside the carriage who is probably also based on someone, but I don’t know who, but knowing this game, it’s definitely a reference to some of that dope ass shit that came out in 2011, called out, “General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting.”  
Definitely Caesar replied with, “Good, let’s get this over with.”  
“Actually, it makes sense that Tullius looks like Caesar because Imperials are supposed to look roman while Nords are supposed to look Norse, Bretons are supposed to look French, and Redguards are supposed to be Middle Eastern. The other races actually line up pretty well in culture, not just appearance…” she began but I’m not going to let her continue because she’s a fucking NERD. In fact, I’m shoving her inside a locker first chance I get in this story.  
“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh! Divines, please help me!” Lokir cried. What a little bitch.  
Chris Hemsworth glared at Tullius and scoffed. “Look at him! General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.” He looked around at the town they were entering, which was actually a really nice town. Hell, this is better than Dawnstar and Morthal and Falkreath. And a HELL of a lot better than Winterhold. Seriously, Winterhold is a zit on Skyrim’s face. Like, let’s just get rid of the rest of it. How does anyone even survive there? There’s no farms or anything like that. I mean, sorry for getting so into this, but it’s so illogical that Winterhold would actually exist. Their only export is mages and Skyrim really seems to hate mages. So, like, why would anyone send them food. Where does Winterhold get the money to pay for these imports? Seems like a major fuck up to me. “This is Helgen,” sexbomb Ralof continued, “I used to be sweet on a girl from here.” Who is she? I’ll kill her. “I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.” I took a quiz about which dere type I was an I got Yandere, don’t think I won’t cut this bitch. “Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial wall and towers used to make me feel so safe.” Imperial walls and towers won’t protect you from me. Nothing will stand between us.  
“Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?” the literal only child in town said. A child that you gave so little a shit about, you probably didn’t even notice he was leaning over his dying father when you come out of the inn later on. Or you did and I’m the terrible person, as usual.  
“You need to go inside, little cub,” his father said.  
“Why? I want to watch the soldiers!” the idiot child of his said.  
“Inside the house, now,” his father demanded. Why was this interaction necessary?  
“Yes, papa,” the child sighed and stomped inside.  
The cart came to a stop with the driver giving the horse a “Woah.”   
An imperial captain who was one of the only female Imperials you’re going to see in the game, so enjoy it while you can, walked up to the cart ad ordered, “Get these prisoners out of the cart!”  
“Why are we stopping?” Whiny babyface asked.  
“Why do you think? End of the line,” Senpai said in his beautiful voice, but refused to notice me. Everyone stood up in unison and totally would have high fived each other if their hands weren’t bound. “Let’s go, we shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for up.”  
“No! Wait! We’re not rebels!” Lokir wailed, but since he failed to specify that him and the girl dressed in rags were the ones who weren’t rebels, no one believed him, seeing as Ulfric Stormcloak was literally right beside him.  
“Face your death with some courage, thief,” Ralof snapped, but refused to note the Nord girl beside him literally in a fetal position and sobbing.  
“You’ve got to tell them we weren’t with you! This is a mistake!” Actually, Lokir has a point. Dick move, Stormcloaks. Just letting them capture two innocent-ish people. I mean, Lokir was stealing a horse and while I’m sure that means cutting off his hand or something in this time, I doubt that killing him is their best bet. But who knows, maybe it was a really nice horse.  
“Step towards the block when we call your name, one at a time!” the female officer commanded.  
“Empire loves their damn lists,” Ralof scoffed. And I feel compelled to agree with him simply because I’m staring at his beautiful, bulging bicep.  
“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”  
Okay, so I know they hate Ulfric and I know it’s noted that this is like super illegal, but don’t they think that people will rebel because their killing him? I mean, he is a Jarl. And people did really like him. So…what’s their plan here? Kill him and stop the rebellion? I mean, this has been going on for a while. Couldn’t they just find a new High King? I really think is a pretty dumb move on their part.  
As Ulfric moved toward the block, Ralof nodded and said, “It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric.” And I am now upset their gonna kill Ulfric.  
“Ralof of Riverwood.”  
DON’T YOU HARM ANY OF THOSE BEAUTIFUL GOLDEN HAIRS ON HIS BEAUTIFUL HEAD YOU BASTARDS! I WILL KILL YOU ALL!  
“Lokir of Rorikstead.”  
“No! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” and then Lokir took off running, which is exactly what the other non-rebel would have done if he hadn’t been immediately hit in the knee with an arrow and somehow died from that. Oh, wait, they fixed that. He doesn’t die like that anymore. Okey.  
“Anyone else feel like running?” the captain growled.  
The girl shook her head rapidly. There was a pause as the two imperials looked at her, then back down at the list, and then back at her.  
“Wait, you there,” the male soldier said, “Step forward.” She did. “Who are you?”  
“I’m Margret. I’m a farmer,” she replied.  
“Really? Margret? Not something like Raven or Lavender or Corsina?”  
“Nope. Just Margret.”  
“And your last name?”  
“Don’t got one.”  
“You…don’t have one.”  
“My family isn’t important enough to have a last name.”  
“So do you have a title? The Beautiful? The Swift? The Hunter? The Shadow Walker? Daughter of the Divine? Slayer of the North? Mother of Dragons?”  
“Um, I mean, some people call me Margret the farmer, but I really think they gave me that name because I worked on a farm.”  
“Okay, so then Margret of…”  
“Oh, I just kinda drift. I was in High Rock just before coming here.”  
“Learning magic? Studying for years?”  
“Farming, mostly.”  
“That’s it. Farming?”  
Margaret shrugged, “Yup.”  
“You have no other skills?”  
“Oh, well some people tell me I’m quite beautiful, if that’s a skill.”  
Hadvar looked her over. Her skin was pale. So pale that it looked like she never got any sunlight. And because it was so pale, her dry skin on her cheeks and nose had turned bright red. Her shoulders, or at least what Hadvar could see, were sun-burn from riding in the carriage for so long. Her lips were almost white and peeling. Her eyes were a dull blue and slightly bloodshot. She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her tunic, making the underside of her nose to the tip the only clean part about her otherwise dirt-coated appearance. Her hair was the color of straw that had been trampled on by horses day after day, and was pulled back in a braid. In fact, there was straw sticking out of her hair now that Hadvar looked closer. When she smiled at him, he could see that half of her front tooth had chipped off. She was average weight, which was her only saving grace.  
“Okay, then, Margret,” he looked down at the list he held, “Captain, what should we do? She not on the list.”  
“Forget the list. She goes straight to the block,” the captain replied.  
“What? No! I didn’t do anything! Come on!” she began sobbing.  
“By your orders, Captain. I’m sorry. At least you’ll die here in your home.”  
“That doesn’t make any sense! I wasn’t even born here!”  
She was pushed forward, though until she was in line with the other rebels. But she was right next to Ralof, so I really don’t know what this chick is so upset about.  
Tullius moved up to stand in front of the Jarl. “Ulfric Stormcloak,” he said because apparently he was feeling real good about himself and really wanted to prolong this moment. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t use a power like the voice to murder his king and usurp the throne.”  
Wow, what a bitch.  
 _Wow, what a bitch._ Margret thought. What was the point of this other than to be a bitch.  
Ulfric mumbled something that no one could hear because he was gagged. But I’m guessing it was something like “Why you gotta be such a bitch, Tullius?”  
“You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace,” Tullius continued like this was the best moment of his life. Seriously, this guy must have rehearsed this shit.  
In the distance came a noise like thunder, but there was something strange about it. Something so clearly a dragon that a child playing this game for the first time and knowing nothing about it would be like “Oh, shiiiiiit. That’s a dragon.” Even my grandmother would be like “Oh no, that there is a dragon,” if she ever played this game.  
“What was that?” Hadvar asked. It’s a dragon.  
“It’s nothing,” Tullius replied. But he was wrong because it’s a dragon, “Carry on.” He was clearly upset that the obvious dragon ruined his speech.  
“Yes, General Tullius,” the captain barked, “Give them their last rites.”  
A priestess stepped forward. “As we commend your sould to Aetherius, blessings of the eight divines upon you-“ she began as if she actually thought a group of Stormcloaks would want to hear all this about eight divines.  
“For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with,” probably the best Stormcloak in the army said. Seriously, what a badass. Dude’s just like, “Fuck you and this nonsense, I WILL NOT GO QUIETLY INTO THE NIGHT! Now take me quietly into the night.” Dope.  
“As you wish,” the priestess stepped back. You could tell she was disappointed and probably regretted coming here. Not as much as she would in a few seconds, but still, she was probably thinking “Why did I agree to this? They’re Stormcloaks!”  
Come to think of it, what if one of the Stormcloaks wanted to have their last rights? What if Margret wanted it?  
For your information, yes, she did want it and she is very displeased with you, random Stormcloak. Very displeased!  
The Stormcloak was forced into a kneeling position. “Come on! I haven’t got all morning!” he yelled, “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”  
Why wouldn’t they be able to? I think their ancestors are just like, “WOO! MY DECENDENT IS GONNA WIN THIS WAR!”  
Of course, this random, but totally badass soldier immediately gets his head chopped off. At least they were nice enough to let him finish what he was saying.  
“You Imperial bastards!” one of the rebels yelled, which is kinda rude. I mean, I know you’re upset, but for real, you knew this was going to happen. What, did you expect them to be like, “Ho ho! Gotcha! We were just kidding about the whole killing you thing.” Because if that was your expectation, I get why you’re mad. But let’s just say that you’re not an idiot and that wasn’t your expectation. It’s a little late to start yelling.  
“Justice!” called some asshole in the town.  
“Death to the Stormcloaks!” growled an even bigger asshole in the town. Seriously, these people are about to die. Dick move.  
“As fearless in death as he was in life,” Ralof said. Which makes me want to jump on top of him and just start making out with him. But there’s this little technicality called “I’m not in the story.”  
Go ahead, Margret, why don’t I live vicariously through you and you jump on top of him to start making out?  
“No…” Margret said with a disgusted look toward Ralof, “Just…no.”  
Ugh, fine. Be that way.  
“Next, the Nord in rags!” called the captain because priority of killing goes by who is the least important person there and the least likely to escape and continue the rebellion. If Tullius had just not been a little bitch about everything and gave is little speech to Ulfric, they could have been done with this by now. Seriously, they’re just being rude at this point. “Oh, lol, we’re gonna kill your army while you watch, and then we’re going to kill you!” Pieces of shit.  
The dragon roared again. Much closer this time.  
“There it is again! Did you hear that?”  
“I said…Next. Prisoner.”  
“To the block prisoner. Nice and easy.”  
Margret was pushed forward. Okay, she was dragged forward, kicking and screaming the whole way. Why would this girl have any courage? She literally is in rags. And I’m assuming that’s what she came over in seeing as they let the Stormcloaks keep their armor.  
Margret was forced into a kneeling position and held there by the captain. She began crying. Well, no, she continued crying. Just harder this time.  
The headsman made to swing his axe when a giant black dragon soared down and landed on the rooftop of the tower.  
Told you so.  
People began freaking out, obviously. The dragon let out a terrible shout which knocked Margaret off balance so hard that like half of the people vanished. Or she passed out for a while, but probably not because she heard everything chronologically.  
“Come on!” Ralof yelled at her, “The gods won’t give us another chance! This way!” She scrambled to her feet and followed him into the tower. The door closed via magic, obvs. “Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?”  
“Legends don’t burn down villages,” Ulfric replied, which is the most elegant way to say “I don’t fucking know, Ralof. Why are you focusing on that when we have bigger problems?”  
“We need to move, now!” Ulfric yelled.  
Margret, who was still bound and more than slightly annoyed that no one else was, but mostly wondered how it was possible, followed Ralof up the tower where the mother fucking dragon literally headbutted his way into and proceeded to breathe fire into the tower.  
“Aw, fuck no!” Margret yelled, taking a seat on the stairs, but was dragged along by Ralof.  
“See the in on the other side?” he asked, “Jump through the roof and keep going! We’ll follow when we can!”  
“Wait, why can’t you follow now?” she whimpered.  
“Well…because…Our comrades are hurt. We need to see if we can get them up and moving.”  
“Then why can’t I stay here?”  
“Because it might not be safe. You aren’t one of us, go! Save yourself!”  
“I’m pretty sure I’m safer next to you, actually.”  
Ralof then literally pushed her out of the hole and into the keep. She landed on her back and was literally knocked out.  
“Did she make it?” Ulfric asked.  
“…Yeah. She’s fine,” Ralof replied.


End file.
